


High School - A Parody

by mangotangerine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basic White Girl Courfeyrac, Breaking The 4th Wall, Combeferre is Hipster, Crack, Enjolras the Nerd, Fanon-Typical-Jehan, Humor, M/M, Makeovers, Parody, Prom, Punk Edits, at least I think it's funny, idek, totes mcgoats, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangotangerine/pseuds/mangotangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac is a Basic White Girl (err, boy). Enjolras is an overachieving know-it-all. Combeferre is So-Hipster-It-Hurts™. When Courfeyrac and Combeferre (predictably) begin to date, Enjolras realizes he is dateless for the prom. After years of going as the Golden Triumvirate and making fun of their peers from the corner, Enjolras feels a bit dejected. That is, until Bad Boy Grantaire comes around. Enjolras wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. More than tickets to that sold out My Chemical Romance concert he went to that one year. More than the A+ in the class with the totally offensive jerk teacher. More than France. There is one problem: Enjolras is a self-righteous nerd, and Grantaire is Too-Cool-For-School.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High School - A Parody

**Author's Note:**

> This is a parody. I make fun of a *lot* of things that I actually enjoy in this. Don't take it too seriously. It's supposed to be hilarious, and maybe I am the only one who thinks so, but hopefully you do too! Enjoy~

It all falls apart when Combeferre and Courfeyrac sit down at the lunch table holding hands. Enjolras gives them a confused smile, glancing down at their hands and back up at his best friends.

“We’re dating.” Combeferre states, voice cool, calm, and collected in the way only an Ultimate Hipster’s could be. “It’s no big deal.”

“We’re in love,” Courfeyrac gushes. “He’s literally Totes McGoats amazeballs.”

Enjolras frowns. “I told you not to use that phrase anymore, Courfeyrac. It embarrasses me. And… congratulations.” Inside, he was panicking. There was an awkward silence.

“So… prom…” Courfeyrac started. “I know it’s totes not cool, but… we’re like, hashtag-soulmates,” Courfeyrac did the hashtag sign with his fingers, “and now that we’ve gotten together, we can’t just go alone. You’re hella gorgie, though, so like, you shouldn’t have that much trouble finding a date!”

Combeferre made a valiant effort not to wince at Courfeyrac’s over-usage of Basic White Girl slang. Enjolras looked pained, like he always did when talking to Courfeyrac. Why were they even friends if Enjolras was always so embarrassed? He wasn’t sure.

Combeferre cleaned his glasses in lieu of speaking, letting everyone know how cool he was with silences. He didn’t need to fill them with trivial small talk. He was too deep for that sort of nonsense. He cleared his throat, leaned back in his seat, and put his glasses back on. “There’s only one problem,” he said. “Enjolras is not popular at all. Actually, nobody really likes him.”

Enjolras glared. “I am _right here_ , guys.”

Courfeyrac frowned, ignoring Enjolras. “That’s true. He’s kind of rude and has no social skills whatsoever.”

Joly, a frazzled sophomore who fancied himself the High School Medical Expert, sat down at the lunch table. Oh, yeah, there are other people in this story too. Anyway. Joly peered at Enjolras suspiciously. “He may be neuro-atypical.”

“Like, what does that even mean?” Courfeyrac groaned. “Use _small words_ , please. I’m not an ultra-nerd like you guys.”

Jehan sat down next. He had a long braid with many flowers woven into it, and intricate calligraphy all down his arms and legs. It was poetry by Pablo Neruda, his favorite poet ever. He said something Really Profound about ivory towers and intelligence hindering the heart, or something. Nobody really paid attention to him because he had terrible fashion sense and was only there because every story needs a Manic Pixie Dream Girl (errr, boy).

Enjolras pouted angrily. “Stop diagnosing me, Joly, you aren’t even a doctor. All you do is read WebMD and act like that makes you an expert. You’re even subscribed to the _magazine_. Don’t lie, I’ve seen it in your bedroom, hidden underneath all that porn,” he snapped.

“ _Enjolras_.” Combeferre said, warning the blond that he was being unnecessarily mean and should definitely apologize. Joly was crying, but it was okay because his bald-and-clumsy-like-Bella-Swan boyfriend was hugging him. His really exotic and beautiful looking girlfriend was hugging him too, whispering sweet-nothings into his ears. Enjolras could be _so terrible_.

Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I don’t need to go with anyone to the prom. I’ll just chill in the back and make fun of people like always.”

Courfeyrac bit his lip nervously. “Like, um, I don’t mean to shatter your dreams, Enjy, but me and Combeferre will be—“

“Combeferre and _I,_ Courfeyrac,” Enjolras interrupted. He was an insufferable nerd.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “We won’t be there to make fun of people with you, is what I am saying. We’re gonna be romantically making out near the refreshment table. He’s my bae,” the male finished with a giggle.

Combeferre nodded sagely. His boyfriend sighed. “So what are we gonna do? Enjolras needs a date, and pretty much everyone hates him or is terrified of him.”

Feuilly perked up. “There’s Grantaire…” he said slowly. Feuilly knew Grantaire because they were in art class together. They weren’t really friends, but they _understood_ each other.

“Who’s Grantaire?” most of The Les Amis said at the same time. Jehan muttered something about unrequited love and mysterious romance and then sighed dramatically. Everyone ignored him again.

Feuilly explained who Grantaire was, and pointed to the corner where he was sitting with a sketchbook and his Always-Faithful-Female-Companion, Eponine. They definitely were not wearing Hot Topic, it was all home-made or thrift shop finds. They looked _totally_ cool and original.

Courfeyrac squealed. “It’s _literally_ a rom-com!” he slapped Combeferre’s arm excitedly. Combeferre made a disgusted face. He only watched obscure French films. “Oh my _gooses_ , ‘Ferre, he’s _perfect_. Total opposites, destined for a rocky relationship, but in the end it’s _true. love_.”

The table all cooed, staring.

Grantaire looked up from afar, seeing the whole table stare at him, and gave them all a really disturbed look.

**xoxo**

“Why are they staring at me?”

Eponine shrugged, not looking up from the collage she was creating from cut-outs of celebs she printed out from the Internet. She was really sad about My Chemical Romance breaking up, so this one was MCR-themed. She was going to put it up on her wall. “Don’t know, don’t care,” she grunted. She was tough-as-nails and didn’t give _any_ fucks.

Grantaire shook his head, going back to his drawing. “Why am I always fucking drawing? Why can’t I ever have a different hobby? It’s always art. Why can’t I be a nerd? I’m supposed to be well-read. Why can’t I be a troll on the Internet or some shit?”

Eponine shrugged again. “I think it’s like, self-insertion or something.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Not like that, you dumbass. God. You watch too much fucking weird porn. Like, Enjolras is the unattainable but mysterious guy that everyone wants to get with, he’s The Perfect Man except for his tendencies to get too angry and yell mean shit, but he always apologizes and means it. It’s not abusive at all. And then Courfeyrac is the one crazy friend everyone wishes they had, and alternates between being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl or a lovable, complete idiot. Combeferre is the Hot Scientist or Hot Librarian dude. And you’re just the person with an important role, hobbies that everybody thinks are cool, but without much of a personality. So it’s easy for people to project themselves onto you. Also, you’re kind of fucked in the head. You should seek help. And learn some communication skills.”

Grantaire nodded. “K, makes sense. But no-go on the seeking help bit, or learning to communicate. That would make too much sense and be completely boring. Fucked up characters are popular.”

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Where’s my unrequited love interest?” she asked morosely. “I want to focus on how my life sucks instead of on how stereotypical this fanfic is.”

Grantaire pointed. “With that completely beautiful and perfect Mary Sue.”

“Got it,” she said, getting up. “See ya, I’m gonna go watch them from behind that pillar.” Eponine walked off.

Grantaire shrugged. The Les Amis were still staring at him. It was weird.

**xoxo The Next Day xoxo**

“Ask him out, Enjy!” Courfeyrac whined. Combeferre sighed. “Enjolras, you are totally oblivious and have no social skills. Grantaire is in love with you. Ask him to the prom.”

“But I am so nerdy and have a terrible personality…” Enjolras said nervously.

“Don’t be cray-cray, Enjy. You’re like, totally hot. Your personality doesn’t matter.”

Enjolras nodded, gathering his courage, and walked up to Grantaire. “Hey,” he said, frowning angrily.

Grantaire looked over at Enjolras, confused as to why the blond was standing at his locker. “Finally talking to me instead of just doing that creepy staring thing, I see.”

Enjolras sighed impatiently. “Look. I don’t have a date for the prom, and I can’t go alone. My best friends, Courfeyrac and Combeferre, predictably started dating each other and I’ve already got a ticket.”

“Aaaand that’s my problem… how?” Grantaire withdrew the items he needed from his locker, closing it and taking a step back. Too much fucking insanity for one day.

“I need you to go with me.”

Grantaire laughed, shaking his head. “Fuck no, you’re an asshole. Nobody likes you. Your glasses are fucking lame as shit, dude, like hell I would be seen with you at a school dance. Also, I am _way_ too cool for prom.”

Enjolras frowned some more, suddenly shy and offended. “But my friends said you were in love with me.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened comically. “ _Shit_ ,” he gasped. “H-how… how did they find out?” he was so embarrassed now. Now everyone knew his being mean and drunk and ignoring Enjolras all the time was just an act. He was _so_ in love with Enjolras, and he just now realized that all of those irritated feelings and erotic dreams were _because_ of his intense love.

Enjolras shrugged. “They’re just really perceptive, I guess. Especially Courfeyrac. He’s the ‘People Person’… I’m the oblivious mean one.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll go with you, but on one condition.”

Enjolras nodded his head excitedly. “Anything!!” he exclaimed.

The curly-and-brown-haired mysterious artist smirked devilishly. “You let me give you a Punk Edit makeover.”

**xoxo**

The night before prom, Enjolras and Grantaire found themselves in Enjolras’s room, which was in a mansion, because his parents were totally loaded. Everyone else was there, too, because it’s more fun to do makeovers with friends.

The blond was sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around his naked torso nervously. “I don’t know about this. I mean, isn’t this just telling me that I’m not good enough as I am and that I have to change for love?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “ _Apollo_. Of _course_ that’s the message. I have to change for you, you have to change for me, the end. Now shut up and take off your pants.”

Jehan sighed from the corner, using his favorite pen to scribble poetry onto Enjolras’s algebra homework. He muttered something about romance being dead and wishing he had lived 100 years ago.

Enjolras objected to being called Apollo and went off on a rant about proselytizing and forcing religion on people being rude.

“I think we need some music!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, jumping onto the bed. “I really want to have a dance party while Grantaire plays dress up!”

Combeferre shrugged. “As long as we listen to really deep and meaningful music,” he said, cleaning his glasses again. Glasses get dirty _very_ easily.

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose like people stereotypically do when they get headaches or whatever, groaning when Courfeyrac turned on the stereo and hooked his phone up to it.

“I stay out too late! Got nothing on my brain! That’s what people saaa-aaa-aay, yeah that’s what people saa-aa-aaay!” Courfeyrac screeched. Combeferre pretended that he hated this song. It was so mainstream and gross. He would never admit that he secretly listened to this song when nobody was around. He would rather die than admit he listened to mainstream music.

Joly was having some sort of heart attack or playing charades or whatever in the corner. Nobody really paid attention to him because he was really melodramatic, except for his two romantic partners. Well, sometimes Grantaire would drink with them, but they weren’t supposed to talk about that because hello, minors?

By the way this takes place in America. The characters are all American, with French ancestry. The names they are using are the ones they picked in French class. Sometimes they liked to throw in superfluous French words when they spoke.

Anyway, back to the important part.

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Grantaire started. “I need you to move your arms so I can put these fake tattoos on you.”

“Shouldn’t it be _mon amour_?” Courfeyrac asked, pausing his One-Man-Dance-Party.

“It’s a bit too soon for that,” Enjolras said angrily, pouting. He turned his attention back to Grantaire. “I don’t want to do this anymore, I changed my mind. I am really self-conscious about my body because I am a teenage boy.”

“But, you’re like, a _Greek God_ , Enjy,” Courfeyrac whined. Combeferre nodded. He didn’t speak much, because he didn’t need to.

Grantaire remembered that Enjolras was half naked and swooned appropriately. He took a few minutes to gather himself and pulled the fake tattoos they had bought out of their plastic bag.

“Ugh, why didn’t we bring re-usable bags? Do none of you care about the environment? Disgusting. You are all disgusting.”

Everyone ignored Enjolras, nobody really cared about _The Cause_ , they just listened to him sometimes because he was pretty and because the meetings of their social justice club, that hasn’t been mentioned until now, serve as a good excuse to party in a generally PG-13 way with no alcohol or other fun things that teenagers are into these days. Courfeyrac especially liked them, because he could have group dance parties and throw glitter on people.

Grantaire picked out a few and held them up to the room. “I’m thinking skull-with-flames on his right shoulder, and this fucking stupid tribal thing on his lower back, like a tramp stamp. Thoughts?”

Courfeyrac clapped his hands excitedly and nodded. “Yaaaaaaaasss, girlfriend, yaaaaaaaaas! And let’s put the barbed wire around his neck, to show everyone how totally intense and cool he is. Oh, and this cross can go on his chest, but like, upside down because religion is _totes lame_.”

Everyone laughed. Religion is hilarious and completely useless and has no relevance in today’s world.

Enjolras began to get excited. “Yeah! Use the ones that are true to my moral values! Fuck religion!”

“What about this Peace Sign one?” Jehan asked in a lilting voice. “Enjolras likes peace, right?”

“No, he only likes peace when I am around, without me he would probably be totally for murdering people who disagree with him, because I am the Voice of Reason,” Combeferre explained.

Enjolras nodded his agreement. “I can be _terrible_.”

Courfeyrac picked up an anchor tattoo and squealed. “Oh my gooses, this one is for me! I literally _can’t even_.” He was a Basic White Girl, after all, and what is more Basic than an anchor tattoo? Maybe an infinity symbol or the word “faith” or a feather or something, I guess.

The Les Amis spent about an hour applying as many cool and edgy temporary tattoos to Enjolras as they could, filling up most available space on his body.

Courfeyrac paused to take a selfie.

“Okay, okay, that’s good enough!” Grantaire said, standing up, once Enjolras’s body was covered in skulls, flames, anarchy symbols, inverted crosses, some pentagrams, a triangle (Jehan scribbled illuminati in perfect calligraphy below it), barbed wire, and a ton of fake tribal tattoos.

“Now!” Feuilly stood up. “Fake piercings.”

Enjolras looked at the bag of fake piercings warily. “What if I am allergic to the cheap metal and/or adhesive that will be used to affix these to my body?”

Courfeyrac groaned audibly. “ _Here we go again_ with the big words, Enjolras! How many times do I have to tell you, we are _mere mortals_ , you don’t need to show off your damn big head all the time, _gross_.”

Enjolras cried silently for a few moments, and Combeferre patted him on the head. “It’s okay Enjolras, I’m still your Best Friend and Platonic Life Partner.” They embraced.

Eponine appeared. She was really sassy and had many piercings of her own, so she gave good advice about what to put on Enjolras. “Fake gauges, obviously. Let’s do the pink ones, to say ‘fuck you’ to traditional gender norms and stereotypes.” The pink gauges were applied.

“Nose piercing?” Joly asked, terrified of the germs all around and the possibility of acquiring tetanus or lead poisoning or other bad things that can happen near metals. He wanted to be included, though. He was very lonely.

“Most definitely,” Eponine said. Together they worked, giving Enjolras just enough piercings to appear Punk-As-Fuck, but not enough to seem garish or like a _poser_. God forbid he look like a poser. Grantaire had standards.

“His hair needs fixing, doesn’t it? He just looks weird now,” Combeferre observed. 10 new piercings and skin covered with fake tattoos… it probably wouldn’t _fix_ anything, but it’d make things more interesting, I guess. Errr, I mean, Grantaire guesses. Guessed. Fuck, third person past tense, third person past tense, third person past tense. Got it. I’m good now.

“I can do this!” Feuilly shouted, standing up. “I take an art class!”

“And me!” screeched Courfeyrac, taking another selfie for Instagram. “I really like bright colors and being involved, and sometimes making a mess of situations, but it’s okay because I am adorable and everyone forgives me for it!”

Out came the colored hair sprays and/or hair chalk. Thirty minutes later, Enjolras had beautiful, neon-rainbow colored hair. He cried. He _liked_ his blond hair. He _liked_ the irony of being a blond person who was _smart_.

“You’ll get over it,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “Now quit your blubbering and man u—”

“ _Woman_ up,” Eponine growled. “None of your patriarchal bullshit. Remember who you are! You may not believe in change but you aren’t a dick in your heart!!”

“How about ‘get tough’ as a gender-neutral term?” Jehan said quietly. Nobody heard him, because he actually whispered, and was still in the corner. He had moved on to Enjolras’s copy of The New York Times, because Enjolras was so nerdy that he _still_ got print newspaper delivered.

Bahorel guffawed. “Maybe he _wants_ a dick in his heart!” Bahorel was really tough, he was the dumb jock, except he actually wasn’t dumb. Just a jock, but also edgy. He didn’t play football. He was like, a bully, but if bullies were kind-hearted and believers in social justice and only beat up Bad People.

“That doesn’t make _any_ sense,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “Can we get back to paying attention to me, now? I need clothes. I am getting cold.”

“I can see that,” Grantaire said, unable to tear his eyes away from Enjolras’s hard nipples.

Eponine smacked him. “Come on, Grantaire, don’t be a _total_ loser.” Grantaire gulped, audibly, and everyone gave him an irritated look.

“Nobody _actually_ does that in real life, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, passing judgment, taking a selfie.

Enjolras whined. “I’m right here!” he yelled. “Pay attention to me!”

Everyone sighed collectively. “Right, whatever,” Grantaire mumbled, pulling out some clothes from the bags. “Okay, I’m thinking strategically ripped black jeans, these biker boots with studs on them, a tight and ripped up MCR t-shirt—”

“I _love_ My Chemical Romance!” Enjolras said dreamily.

“—and this really cool punk jacket with all these patches pre-ironed onto it. Look, an anarchy symbol, and the names of some famous Actual Punk bands, like The Ramones, whose music we have never heard but still admire!” Grantaire finished.

It was approved unanimously. Enjolras got dressed.

**xoxo**

It was the night of the prom. Enjolras was nervous. He had his makeup done by Courfeyrac, and was immensely regretting it. Guyliner, mascara, bright pink cheeks, and lip gloss.

Courfeyrac squealed, predictably, upon seeing him. “ _Enjy_!!” He exclaimed breathily. “Your lipgloss is cool, your lipgloss is poppin’, and your eyelashes are _on fleek_. Slay, girl, slay!” he gushed, fanning himself.

Nobody really had any idea what Courfeyrac was saying, and Enjolras especially thought it was irritating. “You tell me to shut up with my ‘big words’ all the time, but then you go around using words that _don’t exist_. It’s _not fair_. My words are real! It’s not my fault you’re too stupid!”

Courfeyrac began to cry. “ _Enjolras_ ,” Combeferre said sternly. Enjolras sighed and apologized to Courfeyrac, wondering again why they were supposed to be Best Friends.

“Enjolras can be _terrible_ ,” Courfeyrac said, sniffling, to his friends around him. Everyone nodded sagely. They knew. They had all been victim to Enjolras’s anger. Grantaire especially. Actually, Grantaire was crying because he read between the lines and understood that Enjolras was calling _him_ stupid.

Enjolras noticed and apologized, definitely meaning it, and Grantaire forgave him. It’s _definitely_ a healthy relationship.

“It’s not even a relationship yet,” Jehan mumbled, drawing on the sidewalk with some chalk. Oh yeah, they are outside waiting for their limo. It went against all that Enjolras believed in, but he had been outvoted, because his friends and members of the social justice club, again, didn’t really care about Enjolras’s “Causes”. They were just there for the fun music and the snacks.

The limo pulled up, everyone got in. Grantaire and Enjolras had to sit squished up against each other, because plot device. Their hearts were pounding, palms getting sweaty, something something mom’s spaghetti—no, wait, wrong story. Sorry. Enjolras suddenly realized the gravity of his feelings, and how much he loved Grantaire. _Wow_. He was really unobservant sometimes. Quite oblivious.

They made it to the prom, not without hearing Enjolras rant about greenhouse gasses and environmentalism and alternative energy for the whole 15 minute ride it took to get them to school. “Selfie!” Courfeyrac screeched, making everyone scoot in close to fit into the shot. “Okay, make a funny face!” Everyone made a funny face. “Okay, just a few more, keep making funny faces!!” Click click click click, Courfeyrac kept taking pictures. “Okay now duck-face! Ha-ha it will be so cool and ironic!”

“I _love_ ironic things,” Combeferre said quietly. He made the duck-face.

“Okay, great, one more!” Courfeyrac shouted. He must have taken like, 100 by now. “Okay, now this one is just smiling!” Click click.

“Okay, fuck this, I’m done,” Eponine said, breaking out of the group and heading inside.

Everyone else followed and went inside, except Grantaire and Enjolras who stood outside of the school for a moment.

“I’m scared,” Enjolras whispered, clutching Grantaire’s hand. “I’ve never done this before, because I am generally an asshole and nobody can stand my presence, except for some reason the people in my social justice club that is just a platform for me to rant to people about my Teenage Angst.”

Grantaire, who had _a lot_ of experience in this realm, held Enjolras’s hand tight. “It’s okay, Enjolras. I’ll teach you.”

They walked in to school together. They danced. Courfeyrac and Combeferre made out at the refreshments table, getting caught and chased away multiple times before getting flat-out removed from the dance for _breaking rules_. When confronted, Courfeyrac just giggled and said, “Sorry, can’t help it, I’m just _so. thirsty._ ”

Grantaire snuck some alcohol in, spiked the punch, and Enjolras scolded him sternly.

“You’re so hot when you’re yelling,” Grantaire said with a sigh. “This is so fucking stereotypical and it physically hurts me to be a part of this.”

Enjolras finished yelling and apologized, predictably. “I’m sorry, Grantaire, I am just so mean. But can’t you be _serious_ for _one_ second? Spiking the punch _isn’t_ cool!”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, chuckling and shaking his head. “I can’t be serious. _I am wild_.”

“That was really attractive and profound, I am going to kiss you now,” Enjolras breathed lustfully.

They kissed, and lived happily ever after. The end.

**xoxo**

Courfeyrac and Combeferre got married, and Combeferre reluctantly admitted that he actually _did_ like T-Swizzle. Courfeyrac realized, upon graduating college, that his whole high school and undergrad life was unbearably cringey, and changed his name to Craig. He still liked Pumpkin Spice Lattes and Uggs, though. Nobody could take those from him.

The rest of The Les Amis still used their French-class names.

Grantaire and Enjolras moved to France, got married, adopted a French Bulldog, had the type of relationship where they fought constantly but it was really just an expression of their affection and was totally stable, healthy, and _not_ abusive at all.

Jehan became a famous and obscure poet.

Feuilly joined a trade and made mad money, because holy fuck did you know welding paid so well? Fuck school, learn to weld!

Eponine adopted all of her siblings, and works 5 _full-time_ jobs to put them all through college. She still gives _no_ fucks about anyone. Except her siblings.

Who the hell else didn’t I mention?

Oh, Mary Sue—I mean Cosette—and Marius, the lovable but stupid love interest, had 2.5 kids and adopted a golden retriever and bought a house with a picket fence in a well-to-do suburb, living the stereotypical American Life.

Joly and his bald boyfriend and exotic girlfriend never got married, because it wouldn’t be fair, but they lived with each other somewhere in the Pacific Northwest because it seems very open and welcoming there, right? Joly began practicing medicine, but got arrested because he didn’t actually have a degree and was practicing illegally, and also he had been diagnosing people using WebMD. He still has the subscription to the magazine (it’s legit a real magazine, I saw it at my doctor’s office).

Nobody really cares about the bald dude or the exotic woman, so I won’t make up what happened to them. I don’t know, use your imagination or something.

I think that’s everyone.

The end. For real.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr [here](http://mangotangerine.tumblr.com/).


End file.
